“No, I tied you down because we can’t have you touching yourself again, now can we?” He sets the solo cups down on the ground next to the elevated canvas.
My cheeks heat. “And because you wanted me to,” he finishes with a wink. Before I can conjure a counterargument, he takes the three steps back to the settee to tower over me.
I’d just started to splutter out, “But we hadn’t—I didn’t—” when he puts his finger to my lips.
“I wanted to also, don’t you worry.” He runs his rough palm down the side of my face, my neck, my collar bone, and finally,finally,runs his hand over my breast. I can feel my nipple hardening and the fine hair on my arms raise. He continues down to my upper thigh and he squeezes, biting his lip. “In fact, I’d like to bind you in more ways.” He grins down at me, and I realize I’m not alone in operating through a lustful haze. “I’d like to do all sorts of unspeakable things to you.” He begins to slip up the hem of my shirt and he bends over to touch his lips to my lower abdomen, right above the button of my pants. Once again, the warmth of his breath against my skin has me aching. This man knows how to draw things out! We haven’t even had a proper kiss yet, but my hips undulate at the graze of his full lips.
He sits up again quickly, removing himself from me, yet again. I yank against my wrist tie. “Devo,” I let out in a half moan, half complaint.
“Oh, I know, believe me.” Something in Devo’s tightly controlled tone has my eyes flitting down to his pants. He’s wearing black jeans, and now that I’m looking, I can see a bulge straining at his fly. I suck in a cheek and let my tongue wander around the inside of my mouth. Then I bite my lip at the realization of what I’m doing and try to stop my imagination fromsucking a dick I hadn’t yet seen. I am truly lost in this haze. At least it’s not just me.
“And to answer your earlier question,” he says, smiling over me, “the solo cups are not an indication of a frat party, missy. They are very important art supplies. The means to create are more accessible than people think.” He says the last part under his breath. I mentally note the sentiment, but I have more important topics at hand.
“So where does this go, Devo?” I say from my post on the settee. “Do you paint me like one of your French girls?” I shift sideways, pointing my toes and arching my back—my version of a mock-sexy pose while in my current predicament. I pucker my lips for good measure.
He chuckles again and the corner of his lip tugs up. “Something like that,” he murmurs, looking back and forth between me and the contents of the red solo cups. “And it’s actually ‘draw melike one of your French girls’ for your information. Common misconception,” he chastises.
I roll my eyes and bite down on a smile.
“And what’s a common misconception about you, then?” I tease.
“Hmm—” I can tell his mind is only half on the question. “—that as a man, I don’t enjoy romance.” He rolls his “r,” making light of his answer, and I shock myself when a giggle escapes my lips. Our eyes meet and a shared grin spreads across our faces, like we’re middle schoolers who’ve just cracked a stupid joke that landed with the class.
“Ah, yes,” I say, “I’ve never been in such a romantic predicament.” I glance up at my wrists, still smiling.
“Romance is in the eye of the beholder, Charlotte,” he sing-songs.
“I thought that was beauty,” I reply. “And art?”
“You don’t think romance is an art?”
“Clearly, I don’t know what constitutes art,” I say, pointedly looking around.
His response is just a grin, albeit a charming one, but then his attention returns to his supplies.
After some consideration, he picks up one of the solo cups and uses it to pour what looks like white paint into another. He then stirs the concoction with a jumbo craft stick—something I recognize as a tool to mix paint.
I think back through all my research of Devo’s past Muse Paintings. Many of them had been done in splattered jewel tones: royal blues and fire engine reds. The first one I’d ever seen had predominantly been a mixture of black splatters and an almost neon green as an accent.
“Starting already?” I ask, wanting as much of his attention as he’ll give me.
“Mmm, yes we have.” His tone is rich, and he casts me an admiring glance.
“How am I to collaborate like this then?” I tug at my wrists and raise an eyebrow.
“Oh, don’t worry, you’ve already given me plenty to work with,” he says, and then takes a cup and a brush over to the side of the raised canvas. Without much warning, Devo dips his brush in, raises his arm above his head and forcefully throws the paint down onto the canvas. My instinctual reaction is to pull back into the settee, even though the flying paint went nowhere near me, and in fact, didn’t make it far past the canvas tarp beneath it. There are a few wayward flicks of light blue paint on the concrete floor opposite Devo now… but hey, it’s an art studio closet, the flecks of paint blend right in.
I hear another splatter across the canvas and then Devo begins to move a bit quicker. He walks around the raised platform spraying the paint with throws and flicks of his arm and wrist. Sometimes the sound is loud and wet, sometimes it’s a soft swish, like the sound of walking an umbrella between awnings in the rain.
I watch, mesmerized at how quickly he’s working. I can’t quite see the top of the canvas from my position since it’selevated a few inches above me. All I can see is the color and the tail of the splatters that miss the canvas. Could he possibly be painting a silhouette on there like this? Assuming that’s what we’re doing here.
Devo pauses to survey the results. His eyes drag down the canvas. My interest in him is no longer just physical, I want to know about his process.
“Devo?” I beckon.
“Hmm?” He sets his brush into another cup and rolls up his sleeves now that they’ve somewhat unfurled. It takes a moment before his eyes leave the canvas, like he can’t tear them away.
Once his eyes are back on me, that mischievous gleam returns to his eyes and a corner of his mouth tugs up.
